AVA
I wake up moaning, and not in a fun way. My head is trying to eject from my body. There’s a vile taste in my mouth. I don’t want to open my eyes, so I press my palms over them.
What the hell happened to me last night? I take a deep, cleansing breath. But that doesn’t help, because I’m breathing in the delicious scent of…
Reed Madigan.
Oh my God!
I drop my hands as my eyes fly open in a panic. He isn’t here, though. I’m alone in the Vista Suite bed. Reed’s bed. And I’m wearing an unfamiliar T-shirt.
Holy shit. My stomach lurches, practically folding in on its own emptiness. Reed and I didn’t… We couldn’t possibly have…
Then I notice that underneath the T-shirt, I’m wearing my panties and strapless bra, which is located somewhere near my ribcage.
Not because of sex. Nope. I’m starting to remember what actually happened, and it doesn’t fill me with relief. At all. Instead of sex, there was drinking and then puking, while Reed held my hair.
Oh my God. I’m never going to look him in the eye again. I can’t believe I got so drunk that he tried to walk me home. I remember my broken heel. And slumping down in front of his fireplace, telling him not to be nice to me.
I let out another loud groan and force myself to take another deep breath.
Then, when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I hear the sound of the outer door unlocking.
Yipes! I look like a nightmare, and I smell like a distillery.
“Hello? Ava?” a voice calls from the living room. A female voice. I don’t recognize it.
“Um…” I say, clutching the comforter. “Yes?”
“It’s Sheila, Reed’s assistant. I brought you some clothes. Also, your coat and your boots.”
I play that back in my mind, and it makes no sense. “You did? How?”
“The clothes are mine, and Reed got the purse and the coat from your desk.” She appears in the bedroom doorway a moment later. “Sorry to let myself in, but Reed said you’d be pissed if you slept through the nine o’clock meeting.”
I sit up in bed. “Oh God. What time is it?”
“Eight.” She enters the room and sets a gym bag down on top of the rumpled bed. “If you get dressed and head home to change, you can make it with plenty of time. Oh, and I also brought you this.” She lifts her other hand to reveal a white paper bag, the kind from the canteen. “It’s a toasted bagel with just a little butter. I would have brought coffee, but Reed said not to.”
“Oh.”
Oh hell. I clap my hand over my mouth. Because a toasted bagel with just a little butter is exactly what he used to bring me when I had morning sickness. The carbs helped. But coffee absolutely revolted me when I was queasy. He remembered.
My eyes fill suddenly.
“Oh man, are you okay?” Sheila looks alarmed.
“Yes,” I sob. “But last night, I got wasted and puked in front of my ex.”
Sheila cringes, her face full of sympathy. “Oh ouch. Can I assume your ex is Reed?”
“Yes,” I gasp, furiously wiping my eyes. “And I think it’s even worse than that. I think I word-vomited, too!”
“Wow. This trip is even more interesting than I ever imagined.” With a shy smile, she sits at the foot of the bed and hands me the bagel bag.
My stomach gurgles, and I draw the bagel halfway out and take a life-affirming bite. It’s still warm from the toaster. “Omigod thank you,” I groan. “I needed this.”
“It was all Reed’s doing.” She shrugs. “Were you his high school sweetheart?”
“No.” I take another bite. “It’s weirder than that. I grew up on the East Coast and didn’t move here until after he dumped me in college. When he walked into the office and saw me behind the desk, he looked so confused.”
Sheila cackles. “I would pay cash money to see Reed look rattled. Even for five minutes. The girls at work call him the Ice King.”
Well, that’s fascinating. “As in—a guy without feelings?”
“Yup.” She pops the “p.” “I always wondered who broke his heart.”
“Not me,” I grumble, my mouth full of bagel. “Must have been some other girl.”
“I wonder.” Then she gives her head a shake and bounces off the bed. “As much fun as it is to gossip about my hot but emotionally stunted boss, I have to get downstairs and set up a conference room for this meeting.”
“Oh hell! I was—”
Sheila holds up a hand. “I got it. Just put on my track suit and go run home to make yourself presentable. See you down there!” Then she disappears to do my job for me.
That girl really deserves a raise.
Forty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and hurrying back into the hotel. My hair is up in a bun. I’m wearing a dress and enough makeup to hide my hungover pallor.
I’m not even late, so I force myself to skid to a stop outside the Evergreen Room and take a slow breath. The morning won’t be easy. I’ll have to look Reed in the eye today and apologize for being his crazy drunk ex, barfing in his hotel room, and generally making myself look like an incompetent drama queen.
Three days ago, I honestly thought of myself as a woman who had her shit handled. Then he showed up and everything went off the rails.
“Everything okay?” asks a Texas drawl. “We didn’t pour too much moonshine down you last night, did we?”
I startle, turning around to find the youngest Sharpe behind me. “Oh, hi! I’m fine!” I lie. “Just wondering if I needed to return any calls before this meeting. But I think they’ll wait.” I open the door to the room and hold it for him.
He shakes his head. “I would never let a woman hold a door for me, ma’am. Ladies first.” He grabs the edge of the door and nods, letting me know that I should walk in first.
I do it, because I’m not in the mood to argue. I’m not a fan of their weird-ass chivalry.
“Morning!” I say to the room.
“There she is!” Grandpa Sharpe says. “Hope your head isn’t aching. Our style of celebrating can be a little much.”
Jesus, they relish the idea of my suffering. “Oh, I’m fine! It’s nothing that a buttered bagel couldn’t fix.” Plus three Advil and a whole lot of water.
Reed lifts his eyes to mine, his expression unexpectedly soft.
Ouch. I used to really enjoy those glances. But now I turn away and choose a spot at the table that might keep me at a safe distance from him.
There are more chairs around the table today. We’ve got two accountants and a lawyer—even though the legal review isn’t until tomorrow—and of course, the Sharpes also brought their finance team.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” asks a man in a cowboy hat. “We’d like to start with the balance sheet and then move into cash flow.”
“Works for us,” Mark Madigan says.
Our CPA opens his binder to the balance sheet, and off we go. It’s a lot of very dry discussion of revenue and expenses.
The Sharpes don’t ask a lot of questions until we get to the portion on capital expenditures. And then they spend a lot of time asking about the ski-mountain operation. They want to hear all the details about how much ski lifts cost to build and operate and the constraints to building them.
It’s not a quick discussion, and my head is still throbbing. I drain a glass of water and pine for more. But the pitchers on the table are nearly empty, and if I get up to fill them, I’ll look like the waitress and not the executive manager. And something tells me that optics count for a lot with this crew.
I surreptitiously text the chef and ask her to send someone with more water.
The financial questions drag on forever. “All our lift equipment is quite new,” I say at one point, fearing we’ll never move on. “You won’t have to reinvest for years.”
“We are very thorough, little lady,” the middle Sharpe says. “Got to dot the I’s and cross those T’s.”
Holding back my sigh, I vow to suffer in silence.
When talk turns to the revenue side of operations, it’s Reed who starts asking all the questions. “I still would like to understand your basic earnings assumptions,” he says. “By my calculations, you’d have to raise room prices by six times to justify the valuation.”
I hold back my gasp, but just barely. I’m not the only one who’s irritated. Across the table, Reed’s father looks like he’s about to explode.
“You leave that to us,” Sharpe says. “I’m sure you know the ins and outs of squeezing revenue out of an app, but we have the fastest growing luxury brand on the continent. Your mountain has a lot of potential, and we know exactly how to exploit it.”
“Exploit,” Reed murmurs. “Interesting choice of words.”
His father gives him a death glare.
I don’t understand Reed. I really don’t. I have loved this man. I have been left by this man. I have pined for this man, and now I’m just irritated by him.
And I still need to apologize for last night.
Just when I think I might die if I don’t get a break from this meeting, a knock on the door announces lunch. One of the servers enters, pushing a cart loaded down with platters of sandwiches, fruit, and cookies.
I have never been so excited for a break before in my life. Reed looks relieved, too. He rises from the table and heads for the door.
Realizing I could get my apology out of the way right now, I push back my chair and quietly make a move to follow him.
His father beats me out of the room, pursuing Reed across the lobby. Reed stops in front of a large piece of art hanging beside the check-in desk. It’s a geographically accurate artistic rendering of Madigan Mountain and the surrounding mountain peaks.
“Reed,” his father hisses, coming to stand beside him. “What the hell was that? Why are you antagonizing them?”
“I’m not,” Reed says. “But I have questions.”
“Those questions make it sound like you think they don’t know what they’re doing. Or that you’re trying to measure out who has the bigger dick.”
My face reddens. It’s awkward enough to stand like a lurker, waiting to speak to Reed. It’s worse if they’re discussing the size of his dick.
I’ve seen it. Many times. Just not lately.
“Something is off,” Reed insists, his eyes on the map. “Where did you get this? It’s beautiful.”
“Ava had a drone photo commissioned. Then she painted over it herself, as if her name was Miss Leonora DaVinci. But don’t change the subject. What will it take to get you to shut your trap so we can finish the accounting review?”
Reed turns around and finds me eavesdropping. He measures me with an inscrutable gaze that must make all the Silicon Valley dealmakers tremble. “Ava, you’re one of the smartest people I know. Do you have any inkling what the Sharpes are planning?”
The compliment catches me completely off-guard, so I stammer out the least sharp thing I could possibly say. “N-no. I don’t.”
He turns back to his dad. “Have you heard any rumblings about other properties for sale in the area?”
Mark shakes his head. “Do you think it’s a bigger real estate play? I don’t see how.”
“But it has to be. Unless there’s a diamond mine underneath the bunny hill.”
Mark snorts. “Is that what they teach you in business school?”
“Dad, I’m telling you. Something is wrong. If they overvalue the resort, they’ll overleverage it. And then they’ll bankrupt it. You’ll never see the rest of your money.”
His father drops his voice. “They know what they’re doing, Reed. All those successful properties. And I need to sell. I’m sixty years old. I have three sons who want nothing to do with me. If you were me, what would you do?”
Reed looks at his dad with serious eyes. “I really don’t know. I’m sorry.”
That’s when I realize that Reed is too busy to talk to me, and I shouldn’t behave like a busybody.
I slink away. My apology will have to wait.
After a sandwich and a soda, I feel almost human again. The afternoon session is shorter, and Reed keeps his mouth shut, which totally helps.
Until the end of the meeting, anyway, when he suddenly pipes up again. “I have some deal memo notes, gents, so I figure you’ll want them today?”
There’s a brief silence, and I try not to cringe. Mark scowls, because nobody asked Reed for deal memo notes.
“Go ahead,” Grandpa says. “Let’s hear ’em.”
Reed flips a page in his notebook, unconcerned by the agitation in the room. “First, I’d like to ask for a leaseback on the family home. None of you planned to live here, right?”
“Right,” Grandpa says. “Although that’s valuable real estate, son.”
Reed taps his pen on the table. “Dad can’t uproot his life in a matter of weeks, though.”
“We planned to give him some time,” the elder Sharpe says.
“Why not make it official? How many years would you want, Dad. Ten?” He glances toward his father.
“Well, five would be helpful,” Mr. Madigan says.
“How about seven?” Reed says, jotting it down on his notebook. “Okay, then we need to think about our top employees. You’ll want to lock them into two-year contracts, so the transition goes well. Ava, for example, should have her promotion to Executive Manager in writing. Also, we care a lot that our long-time customers experience a smooth transition, and we trust Ava to make that happen.”
There’s a pause that feels five years long to me, but it’s probably only a few seconds. “That sounds reasonable,” the middle Sharpe says.
Reed glances at me. “Perhaps we can hammer that out together,” he says.
I stand up quickly, taking the hint. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me this afternoon.”
My face burns as I walk out. Reed didn’t have to do this—he’s looking out for me, and honestly, it makes him harder to hate.
Although I’m still going to try.
